


Please Stand by the Shore

by guncomplex



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:02:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25574035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guncomplex/pseuds/guncomplex
Summary: Tim Drake ends up tutoring students a few times a week. One of these students happens to be Conner Kent, big-shot varsity player, trying to make it through his math course alive. It's going to be a long few months.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent
Comments: 7
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

Tim Drake was a child with the mind of an adult. It’s through instances like kicking senior ass as a high school freshman during Science Olympiad, or getting away with sneaking through his private school’s shoddy firewall to raise his grade in Religious Studies. Challenge is the habitat he performs best at. It’s where he thrives. Growing up in a criminal’s playground, the dangerous side of town, does that to you. It’s playing the game on a higher difficulty setting. Cars get ransacked, houses get spray-painted – you eventually get desensitized to the chaos. You are a small principality sandwiched between imperial powers. You sometimes do things like wear your backpack in the front when walking by certain areas. Turning around every five minutes while walking the street becomes second nature. Ever since he was a little boy, he was conditioned to be cautious.

Sometimes Tim thinks about how his life would play out in a parallel universe. They wouldn’t need to go far. They could only live a few miles away, at one of South Jersey’s townships instead of its crook-infested cities. Maybe things would be more normal. Maybe Tim would be a child with the mind of a child. Maybe his parents would pay more attention. Maybe his mother would still be here. Maybe they’d actually be a happy family.

Normal things like that.

When he crosses the country, heading West, for college, he doesn’t completely turn off Caution Mode. He minimizes it. It’s like lowering the volume by rotating the knob, without outright muting it. He wears his backpack on his back again, but he still turns around – every fifteen or so minutes this time. He increases the volume once again on the breaks he does returns home. Spring break, sophomore year, specifically. He doesn’t have any desire to come home, but he does so regardless. Jack Drake rings him up a couple of times last fall.

The best thing to do is be there for him, Tim thinks.

It would be his last break home.

For a while, at least.

The flight back to Seattle from the Mid-Atlantic, all five hours of it, is a haze of black coffee and language podcasts.

···

The tutoring idea comes well into the first week of the spring term at a coffee shop close by Tim’s residence hall. The novelty of having new classes wears off quick, and Bart Allen – his roommate and fellow electrical engineering major – eavesdrops on Tim doing coursework on his laptop, with a great view of his search history. _Part-time jobs in college_ , _how to earn money_ _as a college student_ and variations thereof appear on the drop down menu while Tim types something involving sequential circuits.

“Is that for Digital Circuits – _part-time jobs in college,_ ” he reads out through a mouthful of a glazed donut. Tim mentally lets out a sigh at his pitiful attempt of subtlety. “What’s the deal? You low on cash or something?”

“It’s expenses. For, you know, _Japan_.” Tim answers matter-of-factly, after scrolling through flowcharts.

His dad doesn’t know about his study abroad plans. He asks the bare minimum for his dad for travel and living costs under the guise of textbooks and tuition.

Study abroad has always hidden itself on the sidelines of his mind since his high school days, gradually chasing the spotlight the closer Tim gets to being eligible for the program. Timing is cruel, however. The aftermath of his mom’s death has had his dad making more of an effort to reach out to him. He even ponders a move to Seattle at one message.

He doesn’t really know how to feel about this.

“You know, you could tutor or something,” Bart interrupts his headspace, snapping him back to reality. “Like, uh, math! So many people are shit at math and you’re like crazy good at it. There’s a huge demand there. You supply the service. Bam! Economics.”

“Huh.” Tim perpends. “I was actually thinking something along the lines of interning.”

“As a sophomore?”

“Nothing wrong with throwing your shot. Why wouldn’t I get any internships?”

“Okay, I’m not saying you _couldn’t_ get any internships, I mean you would have the best shot of all of us. But like, it would have to be a really, ultra-mega, special case. One in a million thing. Remember last year when I got rejected to that lab volunteer thing without them telling me why? I’m telling you, people have a vendetta against driven young people.”

“It was hardly an age thing. They were specifically looking for biology majors.”

“Dude. What I’m saying is that when you do finally apply for internships next year, you’d have Japan and the tutoring thing under your belt. Like, showing them you have a life outside engineering. And ka-ching! They won’t spare even a glance to the other applicants.” Bart explains.

He remembers his friend Stephanie Brown mentioning some tutoring program at study hall once or twice; something to do with its overcrowding during finals season. Connecting two and two, he figured she might be a tutor as well.

If it matters, he can get her to put in a good word for him.

Tim eventually warms up to this suggestion, either way. It’s a mixture of three factors: compensation, resume buffing, and the convenience of it all. Trying something new didn’t hurt too, rounding the number to four. Later that night, he finds himself submitting an online form applying to the college’s academic support program. He enumerates his credentials like a grocery list, and then he presses send.

Everything pretty much falls into place from there on: Tim receives his schedule from the program, indicating that he turn up at the study hall on the afternoons of Tuesday to Thursday. It fits snugly within his schedule. Too snugly, perhaps – he should already be making his way after his final classes.

It’s a drop-in scenario, he quickly realizes; the students are there usually having trouble on a specific problem they had on class that day. He’d explain all the formulas, all the equations, all the concepts. They’d go through some problems. Occasional questions, clarifications. The student – a freshman more often than not – would then leave, ready to take on the Goliath that is their gen ed math course. For the next day at least. And another student would be on the queue – and so the cycle goes. He was quickly getting the hang of the whole thing. It turned out that Tim was just as good at teaching math as he was at doing math.

Tim sort of enjoys these sessions. These are classes he’d already taken, concepts he’d already mastered. It’s comforting, therapeutic even, to return to familiar territory.

Then days pass. A quick jaunt across the vista grounds from his last class in the engineering building to the study hall, a façade gothic and imposing, has cozily been incorporated in his routine. It’s one Thursday, in particular, the third Thursday of the term when Tim Drake hastily jogs through the grounds. The light spring drizzle drowns everything out around him. The ambience becomes distant, muffled echoes. The people become faded colors in a puddle’s reflection.

He enters the study hall and the bright lights illuminate everything once again.

“Tim!” Steph calls out. Overly cheery for the rainy day. “Jesus, I was about to text you to fetch me some coffee or something.”

“Busy day?” Tim asks, unzipping his slightly soaked North Face jacket.

Steph just shrugs. “Eh, it’s so-so.” The tables have been neatly aligned into columns while the chairs have lawlessly crossed borders. Some tables, chock-full of paper work and solutions, held huge study groups of around eleven frustrated freshmen and overwhelmed upperclassmen. 

“Hey, I’m taking off to the library Starbucks for a while. You take care of that guy over there.” Steph motions towards the general direction of one of the tables, barer than the rest but . There’s a guy at the end, clad in sweatpants and purple hoodie, solitarily flipping through a textbook with a thumb to his chin. “Conner Kent. Needs calc help, I think. Just ask him.”

“Student-athlete?” He swears he’s heard that name being tossed around conversations around campus.

“Yup. Football. He’s a sophomore too. Did really well last season, apparently.”

There’s an initial aversion towards the guy. Perhaps it’s something innate, something fundamental. The mongoose and the cobra don’t get along. The Yankees and the Mets don’t get along. Tim Drake presumptuously thinks Conner Kent is a dumb jock. And so on, and so forth.

“Is there something wrong with him?” Steph quizzes, catching Tim staring at Conner.

“No, not at all.”

“Oh come on, now, don’t be _that guy_. He’s just a struggling student making use of his resources to improve. Just like all the rest.”

“I’m not being _that guy_ – whoever that guy even is.”

“Whatever. Just don’t be a dick out there.” Steph readies herself, grabbing her bag and popping in her earbuds.

“Hey, while you’re at it, I could really use—”

“Yes, I’ll be getting you your dark roast coffee, your highness. Don’t keep him waiting. You might show up on ESPN tonight. Local math nerd infuriates Division 1 athlete.” She giggles, and Tim makes a face.

As much as Tim would hate to admit it, he was sort of intimidated by Conner. Most of his clients thus far were the academically conscious freshman or the sleazy sophomore. They were no Conner Kent, big man on campus, varsity football player. It's as if there's a barrier surrounding him at all times, an air of unattainability. Tim doesn’t know if it’s just him who sees it.

“Hey,” Tim flashes a small smile, settling down on the chair across Conner. The table was not very crowded; on the other end, he could overhear two French majors going over pronunciation rules. He takes a deep breath. Everything feels choreographed, rehearsed. He wants Conner to like him, stupid as it may sound. It's just human nature - this was Tim's go-to conclusion on occasions he can't explain himself, or his feelings, or his actions.

Human nature, he assures himself again. Especially when it involves a big-shot of sorts.

“Math 124?” he asks, pointing to his textbook.

“You’ve taken it before?”

“Yeah, freshman year.” _Don’t boast, don’t fucking boast._ “Uh, got an A+ on it.” _Damn it._

Conner chuckles. “That’s good. Maybe you can help me with this one.” He skims back a few pages to find a fairly crimpled worksheet lodged between the pages, then handing it to Tim.

“Did you have Cendrowski?” he asks, while Tim scans through the problems.

“Nah. Moore. She was pretty chill.”

“Lucky. Cendrowski’s very stuffy.” Conner grimaces, taking a gulp from his thermos. “About _everything_. It’s insane.”

Tim quietly simpers, then signals towards the worksheet to capture Conner’s attention. “Okay, so we have the derivative of g’(x).” He points to a graph in the worksheet. “So you’re going to have to find out the interval this function increases at first. Can you do that?”

“Right, I think I may need some help on that.”

Tim smiles. “Alright, no worries.” 

The session goes by smoothly. Conner Kent is a surprisingly quick learner. The aforementioned barrier doesn’t exist after all, and if it does, then it has faded rather quickly. Steph eventually comes in with the dark roast coffee he’d requested. They’d gone through the whole worksheet, but neither were readying themselves to leave the table. It was a post-session phase of quiet; Conner was scrolling away on his phone while Tim was giving the worksheets one more final do-over.

“So, um… how’s the football going?” Tim asks out of nowhere. There’s a slight panic in the microseconds after he spurs out the final word – is it weird that he just somehow knows that this well-built guy in front of him plays football?

“Oh, yeah, it’s good. It’s going good,” Conner responds. Okay, so it’s not weird. It’s a well-established fact, then. “It’s off-season right now, so it’s just a bunch of practicing and weight training at the moment. And all this I guess,” he laughs, gesturing to all the papers laid out before them.

Tim laughs with him too.

“Hey, I’ve got to go back home. I need to be at the gym up early tomorrow.”

“Sure, yeah, that’s fine.”

Conner begins to assemble the papers, the worksheet, his thermos, and his Calculus textbook and slings his gym bag over his shoulder. “Thanks, though. You’ve really, uh, helped me a lot.”

Tim nods in acknowledgement. “Wait, by the way, don’t forget to sign my name in the log sheet. It’s Tim.”

“No worries, Tim. I’ll make sure you’re getting your money.” Conner snickers, going over to the front counter.

···

Tim finds himself bored out of his mind one quiet evening. He’s alone in his dorm, seated in front of his desk. An unfinished air flow detector circuit lies on the side, along with illustrations of diagrams, its dismal state beckoning for attention. His laptop screen is playing some true crime show that goes in one ear and out the other. 

This moment of calm frightens him. His focus easily drifts off to corners of the mind, places where his rawest emotions thrive, a part of himself he is afraid of.

It's his dad he thinks of first.

He’s a poor little thing, alone in that big mansion. It was a Mediterranean revival, with its ivory-colored stucco and its portly arched doorways prominent from out in the street. The house was an uncomfortable companion. It wasn’t a place anyone liked being alone in; it’s got a presence of its own, austere and harsh, as if the walls were commanding you to stop slouching, fix your tie, keep your feet down.

It’s a feeling Tim knows all too well. Now his dad is asking him for that one thing he’s deprived him of all his life, and the irony of it all makes it difficult for him to gauge just how genuine he really is.

On his phone, there’s an unanswered message from him that haunts him every once in a while. It was sent at the end of spring break, shortly after Tim boarded the bus to the airport the next state over.

 **Dad** [March 31, 6:58 PM]: _Anywhere you want to for us to go to your next vacation? :-)_

He just wants his boy to be there. And he would be across a country and an ocean away.

“Shit,” Tim finds himself wiping off tears that had somehow gradually formed. He forces himself to think of other things. He doesn’t want to deal with that. Not right now.

His mind then jumps to Conner from a few days ago.

While he attempts to compose himself, he minimizes the episode that had been playing all along the background. He opens his browser and mindlessly types out his name into the search bar. Enter. Immediately, he’s greeted with a bunch of articles from online athletic newspapers, paragraphs and paragraphs of sports jargon, pictures of Conner himself decked head-to-toe in football getup. The guy who’s intently clutching the ball, the guy who’s posing in uniform, the guy who’s in all the photos is the same guy in sweatpants he was teaching calculus to a while back. He still finds it all somewhat bewildering.

He manages to find his Instagram account upon scrolling a bit more. _@conner.kent_ has 23k followers, puts QB in his bio, and of course he’s fucking verified. 

The posts are pretty much the same kinds of pictures back at Google Images. He’s on the field. He’s about to throw a ball. He’s lifting weights in the gym. There’s an outlier though – one of his most recent posts is of a wild rural prairie, slightly tinted orange by the distant sunset. The caption: “ _I guess I miss home sometimes._ ”

···

“Hey guys, this seat taken?” Steph comes up to their table in the nearly empty dining hall, chickpea wrap on one hand and a laptop case on the other. 

“Go ahead.” Tim responds. Bart’s seated across him, going through a thick textbook. “Hey Steph,” he huffs.

“What’s with _him_?” She grouses, perching herself beside Tim.

“Major quiz later. Even Tim’s afraid of it. He skipped his morning classes just to study for it.” Bart says, eyes glued to pages of formulas upon formulas.

“I’m not afraid,” Tim defends. “I just couldn’t be bothered to get up today.”

“Oh, Tim, by the way,” Steph says while setting up her laptop. “Conner came back yesterday. He asked for you specifically.”

Tim nearly spits out his coffee. He’s been hearing the name Conner way too often these past few days. “Really? What… what did you say?”

“Don’t get too excited now.” Steph playfully rolls her eyes. I said you weren’t available today. Then I gave him your number so he can arrange something with you. He probably thinks you’re a bomb ass teacher. You’re welcome, Tim.”

“What did I tell you, Tim? Tutoring wasn’t such a bad idea, huh?” Bart crows, finally looking up from his book.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” deadpans Tim.

It’s almost irritating how often Tim unconsciously thinks of Conner. Sometimes, he’d be walking around campus when he would start thinking about what would happen if he somehow had an encounter with Conner, right there and then. They’d make eye contact, share a smile, and go their separate ways. Of course, Tim hasn’t seen Conner since last Thursday, yet the invasion of his state of mind makes the ordeal seem more recent.

He’s making his way to his next class alongside Bart when he feels a buzz in his pocket. His heart skips a beat as he reads the notifications in his phone. Speak of the devil.

 **(785) – 555 – 2093** [3:00 PM]: _Hey it’s Conner here_

 **(785) – 555 – 2093** [3:00 PM]: _Is this Tim from study hall?_


	2. Chapter 2

They meet again later in the week, another one of those gloomy, damp Wednesdays. Much colder than last week. The weather is in a state of limbo of will it rain or not, the clouds casting showers for a while, then stopping to a halt, before the cycle goes on again. The intermittence is peaceful still. Tim’s looking out the window beside them – the outside world is idyllic, a contrast to the bustling ambience in the study hall. Conner attempts to power through a problem he insists he’s got the hang of.

He’s bluffing for sure, if the exasperated look splattered across his face served as any indication.

Tim notices this upon shifting his focus back to Conner. This time around, they’re sat beside each other as opposed to across. “You alright there?”

“Yeah. Just need to look for the… something.”

He looks over to Conner’s paper to check on how he’s doing. It’s going fine, so far. “The critical points?”

“That one.” Conner immediately goes back to plugging in some numbers in the calculator as if an idea lightbulb just sparked at Tim’s words.

“You know, you don’t need to go through that on your own,” Tim winces at his choice of words. Words of comfort. These taste weird on his mouth. “That’s kinda the point of me being here.”

Conner doesn’t say anything and continues to intently jot down the answers that loaded up in the calculator. “Y increases in…” He begins blurting out the answer just as he finishes the problem. “…the second and last ranges.”

He passes over the scrap paper to Tim who mentally checks the answer. “Yeah, that’s right. You’re doing great so far.”

“Told you I could handle this one.” Conner grins, leaning backward onto his chair.

“I mean, it was because I was here, so…”

“Jeez man, let me have my moment.”

“Alright, alright, you’ve earned it.” Tim holds his hands up in mock-surrender.

Conner tilts his chair back and folds his arms on the table. “So, this math thing,” he says, trying to start up a conversation. “How did you get so good at it?”

“I, uh, don’t really know,” Tim sputters, absently pulling on the drawstrings of his hoodie. The question caught him off guard. “It’s not really something I became good at. It’s just something I always did.”

“Wow. That’s it? So just like that, you’re just naturally talented or something.”

The corners of Tim’s mouth curl up into a small smile. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t flattered by what he said.

“Hey, not all of us are football pros.”

“I practice,” Conner maintains. “It’s not like I came out of the womb scoring touchdowns.”

Tim’s sessions with Conner are sporadic. He has a busy schedule of his own. They meet once a week for the most part, maybe twice if they’re lucky. It further makes him seem unattainable. “When it doesn’t rain as much, you can come to the stadium,” he’d said at another one of their sessions, the last one before midterms week rolled around. “You can teach me over there when I’m done with practice. It’d be really cool, I think.”

He tries not to doze off in class like a lovesick high schooler, thinking of watching Conner run around the slightly rainy field from the bleachers.

On occasion, Tim would receive texts from Conner. Pictures of problems he’d gone through his classes during the day.

 **Conner** [1:40 PM] _Hey, sorry to intrude lol_

 **Conner** [1:40 PM] _But by any chance do you know anything about this haha_

 **Conner** [1:41 PM] sent attachment IMG_1340.jpg

Tim finds it strange how casual Conner is; how everything seems easy to him. He randomly texts some guy he had only met a few times like an old pal. He’s in college football and is presumably one of the best players of the roster. And god help him, he’s probably one of the most attractive guys he’d laid eyes on throughout his entire stay in college.

Sometimes Tim wonders if he’s even human. He’s so perfect it seemed like he was carefully made rather than naturally born.

Perhaps what’s even stranger is Tim replying, assisting Conner through his queries. These weren’t sessions at study hall which meant he wasn’t getting paid for this one. He wouldn’t be helping out some random guy for free.

Unless, maybe, if they were friends. It’s an idea that lays far from his reach.

He asks himself, before texting over an explanation to his equation: _does Conner Kent even see him as a friend?_ Let x be Conner. Show your working below.

···

When Tim comes out to the corridor from the classroom, having finished his physics midterm, he finds Steph leaning against the wall across. There’s about three textbooks folded in her arm. She waves, beaming as their eyes meet. “Well, Tim, how was it?”

“Hell,” Tim mutters, walking towards her as other weary-faced students pour out of the classroom. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“Well, it’s about you making up your mind about the party at Bernard’s place…?” Steph trails off, slowly avoiding eye contact.

Beside her, Tim slouches, sighs. He remembers the texts Steph had send him a few nights before, it’s apparently supposed to be an end-of-midterms slash housewarming party. He hasn’t attended a college party since last year’s winter term. It’s an exhausting ordeal. The fact that he was involved with one of the hosts of this particular party once upon a time did not help matters. “Didn’t midterms week tire you all out?”

“It’s not going to be super crazy,” Steph says. “It’s just going to be a few friends at their house at Roosevelt Way.”

“Oh,” Tim mutters in hesitation. He’s trying to look for a reason to ditch the party, but there’s an allure surrounding the prospect of the college party scene. This one’s just a gathering of people he mostly knows. It’s a way to get his mind off things. Something about saying yes feels wrong but he doesn’t want to say no.

Right. Bernard. It was a tortuous year-long affair, from the fall of freshman year to the fall of sophomore year. He’s done a good job of avoiding him so far.

Steph notices Tim’s overall reluctance and she smirks. “Is this about Dowd?”

Tim says nothing but she takes his silence as an affirmative.

“It’s only awkward if you make it awkward,” she reassures, tapping his shoulder with her free hand. “Besides, you don’t need to talk to him at all. Maybe a hello, then nothing beyond that.”

He does not, tries not, to think anything of it. He just thinks about his college friends: Steph, Bart, Cassie and how they’d all be there. And he loves his friends; it wouldn’t hurt to meet new ones as well. So he’s going to be there. It’s going to be a fun party, damn it, if he believes it hard enough maybe it would become true.

···

The Uber drops Tim and Bart off at around 8:30 pm, thirty minutes into the party when it’s well under way. The Uber promptly drives away in the dark of Roosevelt Way, and the two of them fix their hair and smoothen out the wrinkles of their clothes on the sidewalk in front of the townhouse building. It’s mostly quiet around; the muffled music coming from inside isn’t loud enough to instill the neighbors with fury.

“Hey, we can look for places over here! Really close to campus, and the houses are crash.” Bart remarks. They had been apartment hunting together for a few months now, itching to leave the crowded residence halls come junior year.

“I’d rather not,” Tim deflects. He looks around, and thinks about the proximity to Bernard if they happen to settle down here. “I think I like the one we found at Fremont.”

Bart shrugs. “Fremont’s gonna be a hell of a commute.”

“It’s just one Metro ride. And we’ll be closer to downtown.”

Bart abruptly presses the doorbell afterwards, without giving time for Tim to mentally compose himself for the potential encounter with Bernard. He wants to tell Bart off in a fit of panic, but he restrains himself, remembering Steph’s words; it’s not going to be a big deal if he doesn’t make it so.

As expected, it’s Bernard who answers the door. He looks striking as always, wearing a blue jean jacket over a collared shirt. “Hey, Bart!” He greets, then glances cordially towards Tim’s direction with a slight nod. “Tim. Glad you guys could make it, come on in!”

Bernard’s unit is crowded but in a way that’s still comfortable. The music isn’t booming loud frat party style, but only serves as faint ambience. Tim recognizes an upbeat Arctic Monkeys tune, one of Bernard’s signature favorites, playing quietly in the background amidst the chatter of the partygoers. There’s not much dancing going on. It feels less like a quintessential college movie rager and more like a typical get-together. They meet Steph and Cass, holding red solo cups, hanging out by the window. It’s a dusky view of the pine trees swaying along the soft gust.

“So… what do you think? His new place’s really cool, huh?” Steph draws out her arm across the room.

“Yeah, it’s nice, but the real question is how the hell does he pay for this thing?” Bart gawks out.

“I think he has four other roommates or something. One of them is a senior, he’s the one supplying the booze I think.”

“That’s got to suck. It’s like living in the dorms all over again.”

It’s idle conversation that fades into the background. Tim chimes in every so often, until he excuses himself to the kitchen for the jungle juice dispenser. A drink or two would take the edge off, give him that buzz. He grabs a solo cup, positions it under the dispenser, and tugs on the knob until his cup’s almost full.

The kitchen is as quiet as a room next to an ongoing party could be, a needed break from the chaos outside. He stays there for a while, takes a sip of his drink, browses through his phone. A few guests, some faces he recognized, would come by to refill their cups, but other than a polite nod here and there they’d mostly left Tim alone.

Bernard happens to be one of the people who pops by for another helping. It’s like an alert was triggered within Tim’s body when he sensed his presence. He downs a significant gulp of his drink. Tries to play it cool, tries not to notice. But if he doesn’t notice him, it would seem like he’s avoiding—

“Hey, uh, what are you doing over here?” The sound of Bernard’s voice quickly bursts Tim’s trance. He drifts towards the dispenser for a refill. “They’re setting up flip cup out there.”

“Nah, party games aren’t really my thing,” Tim casually fiddles around on his phone, trying to look busy. After a while, he shuts it off and pockets it. “Just needed some time to myself.”

Bernard laughs, which surprises Tim. He paces over to the fridge beside Tim and leans against the island counter behind him. “You never change. Of course you do.”

“Yeah,” Tim laughs back, attempting to not sound uneasy. “Uh, nice party, though. And nice house.”

“Thanks,” he smiles, looking down to the floor for a moment. “So, Steph tells me you’re going to Japan?”

Tim mumbles a ‘mhm’ through another sip of his drink. “I’ll be there in September. I’ve been minoring in it, uh, Japanese, since last fall. To practice.”

Bernard nods in acknowledgement. “Since last fall. Yup.” Of course, he's thinking of something else that happened last fall. 

An uncomfortable silence follows. It’s suffocating and a far cry to the peaceful silence that was before. _Nice try with the whole “not-awkward-if-you-make-it” thing, Tim._

“I miss you, you know.” Bernard says out of nowhere. He fixes his gaze towards Tim, his eyes intent and imposing. All of a sudden things become more intense, and Bernard begins to move closer. It’s all about them right now and there’s no escape.

“Oh, uh…” Tim stutters. He takes a step back, looks away, staring at nothing, as if words were manifested in the air, and he has to carefully choose which of the airborne words to say. “Thanks…?” It was so hard to say _I miss you_ back even if he feigns it. Not that he didn’t miss him, or maybe he really didn’t, he doesn’t know; it’s more so about opening up another can of worms Tim doesn’t want to deal with.

Another laugh. “Damn, you’re heartless, huh?” he blurts out in between chuckles, and Tim can’t tell if the laughter’s genuine or a disguise for hurt. He can tell that he’s probably hammered even a little bit, and he prays that this becomes forgotten in the morning.

“I don’t mean to. I’m sorry. This isn’t supposed to happen.”

“Nah, you’re right. I shouldn’t have – yeah, no worries,” Bernard brushes off. He tells Tim his friends are waiting for him at flip cup, and he’s out of the room after an awkward farewell.

Tim senses, no, he _knows_ that Bernard has more to say. He knows there’s so many questions he wants to ask, questions he doesn’t know if he has the answers to. He leaves not long after, and the party seems to have moderately escalated. The music, the cheers, they all become louder as a result of a progressive joint insobriety.

He squeezes through groups of people and finds Cass and a girl he couldn’t place a name to talking to each other on the sofa. The conversation is lively and dynamic; the girl stands up and leaves after a while, and Tim has the impression she’s going to come back.

“Where have you been?” She calls out once she notices Tim make his way.

“Went for this,” Tim raises up his cup. He settles himself beside Cass, scopes around for Bart and Steph. “Where did everyone go?”

“That took a while,” she deadpans. “We all did our own thing. Look over there, Bart’s playing flip cup.”

She points to a table on the other side of the room, where red cups were set up. Sure enough, Bart was there cheering along with the crowd throughout the game.

“And Steph?”

Cass shrugs. Tim assumes she’s lost herself in the crowd, not that she minds, she’s likely enjoying herself jumping around from topic to topic and person to person.

“I’m going home. Tell Steph and Bart for me?” Tim whips his phone out to call an Uber back to the residence halls.

She suddenly looks at Tim with concern. “Are you alright?”

“No, I’m fine. I’m just feeling a bit tired.”

“Okay, I’ll tell them for you.”

“Just one question, Cass,” Tim pauses, takes a deep breath, slowly exhales. “Am I… an asshole?”

She thinks for a while but doesn’t seem fazed by his jarring question at all. Her answer’s blunt and says too little but it seems right. “You’re very mature,” she begins. “I know, I know that you always mean well.”

···

Once he returns to his dorm room, there’s a moment of calm when he turns on the lights to a relaxing emptiness, a comforting neatness. He unplugs his earphones and places his phone on his desk before falling into the bed, staring at the ceiling, reveling in the stillness for a while.

He thinks about the other three, imagines what they’d be doing at this very moment. What only sticks out is the noise and the chaos, and he’s never been more grateful to have come home early. It’s nice to be alone, to have moments where all you have is yourself, especially when it feels like everyone is chasing him down, wanting something from him.

The minutes go by and he drifts off into sleep. Ponders upon nothing. He's had enough of familiarity for tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> online classes have been kicking my ass atm jddhjdh which is why this took a while :(


End file.
